


Heat

by plumeria47



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Hypothermia, M/M, One-Sided Attraction, Period Typical Attitudes, Present Tense, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-19
Updated: 2020-02-19
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:06:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22794460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plumeria47/pseuds/plumeria47
Summary: When Holmes is caught in a storm, John warms him up.  And then Sherlock warms John up in an entirely different way.Set just before "The Adventure of the Devil's Foot."
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 8
Kudos: 55
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 5





	Heat

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dissembler](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dissembler/gifts).



> [Dissembler](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dissembler/pseuds/dissembler), I am very sorry this was late - life got in the way and I lost track of time. Technically this is now just a treat, but I still wanted to finish what I'd started, and give it to you. I hope you like it!

It’s another dreary January day, cold but without the pleasantness a bright, cleansing snow sometimes brings to the squalid London streets. Indeed, it sometimes feels as if nothing will ever penetrate our oily dense as I open my bedroom curtains only to be faced, once again, with a blank, dark wall so thick I cannot see the buildings across the street. I dress quickly, glumly noting that our gas bill will likely be just as bad as last month’s, given how little daylight we have enjoyed of late. Not the best start to 1897.

Already I am in a rather dour mood by the time I enter our breakfast room. Holmes, of course, is already nose-deep in a small book of some sort. Normally I partake of the morning newspaper but Holmes, who has no patience for social conventions when something more urgent is to hand, is frequently found at table with all manner of materials; however, I have drawn the line at finding his chemistry experiments alongside the butter dish. 

“A new case?” I ask, as I take my place and settle my napkin across my lap. Holmes is not prone to reading fiction, so it is likely his book is of a more informative nature. He has been particularly busy of late, sleeping and eating even less and partaking of his dreadful opiates even more recklessly than usual. These stresses upon his body have pared even more flesh away from his already-spare frame, and left shadows beneath his dark eyes. He still seems as focused as ever, but I worry about a new case inflicting additional strain upon him.

“In a manner,” Holmes replies, taking an absentminded sip of tea as he continues to read. “New publication by one of your colleagues, one Henry Havelock Ellis.” His gaze flicks up to mine. “Have you heard of him?”

I reach for the teapot and pour for myself. “No,” I reply, frowning a little. Of course I cannot possibly be familiar with every physician in the city, but we doctors do form connections with many of our colleagues, in case some malady requires someone else’s special skills.

“Not entirely surprising,” Holmes continues. “He runs no medical practice that I am aware of.”

“A research physician, then?” 

“Yes, so it would seem. And a rather unusual research he has focused on, as well.” With one slender finger holding his page, Holmes flips the cover of his book closed and taps the title with his other hand. 

Turning my head a little, I can just make out the words across the table: _Sexual Inversion_. “Goodness!” I exclaim, feeling heat rise to my cheeks. “You might warn a man. What a thing to be reading about over breakfast.”

Holmes is, of course, supremely unconcerned with the appropriateness of his reading material. “I had a gentleman in here yesterday while you were off seeing patients; he is trying to locate his lover. This book,” he indicates with a nod, “may give me some insight on the missing man’s psyche.”

I pause in the act of buttering a piece of toast. “You don’t mean to tell me your client actually came straight out and said he was an invert!”

“Of course not,” Holmes replies with that maddening calm of his. “But he was clearly far more distraught over the absence of a ‘friend’ – as he claimed – than might reasonably be expected; plus, of course, there was the very obvious symbol of the green carnation in his buttonhole.”

I blink in surprise. “Green carnation?”

“Really, Watson,” Holmes replies in some impatience. “You have a club. You frequent the Turkish baths. You see patients. Surely you’ve seen a few green carnations in your many encounters.” 

I take a sip of tea, ordering my thoughts. “I suppose I have seen a few. It’s not precisely a colour one normally sees in carnations.”

“Any simpleton can replicate the process,” Holmes says dismissively. “One simply purchases white carnations, then adds green dye to the vase of water. The flowers draw up the colour through their stems. But their artificial nature is why inverts use it as a signal to identify each other – it’s not something one would wear without being fully conscious of its meaning.”

“And your client was wearing one, I take it?”

“Naturally.”

I nod toward the book now lying open next to his abandoned plate. “Has your reading proved fruitful?”

Holmes takes an absent bite of his egg, then sets his spoon down again. “It remains to be seen,” he says once he’s swallowed. He tosses his napkin back onto the table. “I have other leads to pursue in the meantime. Have you patients to see to-day?”

“Not until two o’clock.”

He pushes back his chair and rises to his feet. “Then, if you would care to join me, I should be glad of your company and insights.”

“A moment.” In his haste to be off, the hound chasing the fox on yet another case, he has neglected to properly wipe his lips of egg residue. It’s not the first time and will likely not be the last he has neglected some aspect of his appearance in his eagerness to strike while a trail is hot. I snatch up his discarded napkin and, wrapping it around my index finger, brush away the offending remainders of his breakfast from his mouth. 

“Thank you, Watson,” Holmes says when I finish. “I am sure it must be tiresome looking after me at times.”

“No trouble at all,” I assure him, and I follow him out to the entryway in search of our coats.

Unbeknownst to Holmes, his recent choice of reading has struck a nerve. 

I have had the pleasure of working with Holmes for about six years by now, and what a marvelous period of my life it has been. No longer consigned to my previous lonely flat, there have been ample opportunities for interesting and frequently lively discussions, contented evenings of shared quiet and, of course, the fascination of watching Holmes make astonishing – and accurate – deductions about a case. These events, in addition to my usual medical practice, have made for an exceedingly satisfactory life. 

As a result of our spending so much time together, Holmes has become my dearest friend. He is not a person to express warmth very often, but I believe he feels the same regard for me as I do for him. However, there has been, within myself, a growing disquiet at the _sort_ of warmth I sometimes feel for Holmes. It was, I admit, not the first time another man had caught my eye; however, that had last occurred in Afghanistan, and I had dismissed the event as simply being the natural result of lack of contact with any of the fairer sex during our service. It was not uncommon for the men to find brief reprieve with each other, and so I had not dwelled overmuch on my own experiences of that nature during my tour of duty. 

My feelings now, however, seem rather different. I live in our glorious capital, where there are ample opportunities to encounter ladies if one simply walks out the door. And, indeed, I have seen many charming young women as I go about my business, but none have, as yet, truly caught my fancy. Meanwhile, there have been an increasing number of moments where I have longed for an added closeness to Holmes, in ways that cannot be merely dismissed as an effect of male-only companionship. Yes, all my spare time _is_ spent with him, but it is not forced upon me as military service was. I wonder if my experiences in the military have somehow tainted me, led me to have continued desires for my own sex. Do my former comrades now suffer I do? Or, as Ellis suggests, is this some innate fault? There is, of course, nobody I can consult about this. Holmes frequently has hitherto hidden stores of knowledge, and he has always displayed a dispassionate interest in details, seldom making biased judgments of his own, but I still do not dare share my thoughts on this matter. However, I admit to being surprised at how readily he involved himself with a case for a pair of sodomites, and, far from dismissing the invert who had approached him, is now going so far as to learn more about that hidden culture.

I confess I have never sought to learn more, myself, despite my growing feelings. To do so would have been to admit that there was something different, something wrong with me, which I have not, until recently, had the courage to admit even to myself. I read Dr. Ellis’ publication once Holmes is finished with it, claiming professional interest; it is clear that Dr. Ellis’ maintains the common view that such attractions are undesirable, but he also takes the unusual position in believing that they are innate rather than a choice and, as such, should not be treated as a criminal activity. Ellis makes several other notable observations as well. I therefore begin to pay more attention to my surroundings, noticing the green carnations and, occasionally, a brilliant peacock feather bedecking otherwise ordinary-looking gentlemen I pass and realizing that, although such cases are still fairly rare, there are more than I have previously realized. Although I refrain from involving myself in their society, it makes me feel slightly less alone. 

Alas, the case involving the invert did not have a happy ending. The missing gentleman was found in the Thames two days after Holmes began his inquest. His lover declared that would not have been suicide, so it appears he fell into the water by accident, as the fog was particularly thick the previous night, so much so that it was impossible to see how close to the bank’s edge he was walking. It is not the first time such a tragedy has occurred, but it is still a sad outcome. Since then, Holmes has continued to pound away at case after case, and I have grown concerned at the state of his health, as he grows thinner and more weary. He presses on, regardless, but the relentlessness of the intense work is taking its toll.

Spring has arrived by the time I insist Holmes see a doctor or, rather, be seen _by_ a doctor. I know Holmes will simply brush off my own concerns, no matter that I, too, am a doctor, but also know he will likely pay more attention to some other physician. I therefore ask a colleague of mine, one Dr. Moore Agar, to make a house call. Sure enough, although he initially protests, Holmes eventually capitulates to Dr. Agar’s insistence that he take an immediately holiday, lest he suffer a nervous breakdown. He suggests taking in the peaceful surroundings and fresh air of Cornwall, to maximize the contrast from our hectic and smoggy surroundings in London. There is no question of me staying behind while Holmes goes, which is how I come to find myself in a modest cottage, edged by Poldhu Bay on one side and lonely Cornish moors on the other. There are a number of tiny villages scattered across the moor, the nearest of which Tredannick Wollas, from whence comes the girl who cleans the cottage every few days and handles our laundering needs once a week.

Other than that, however, Holmes and I are entirely on our own, which, to my mind, can only be beneficial in helping my friend rest his body and spirit. In fact, Holmes withdraws to still more restful pursuits, taking long solitary walks along the clean, wind-swept moors and spending time in quiet contemplation when he is at home. We have our conversations, of course, but the silences between us have always been comfortable, and with a surfeit of reading material to catch up on, I am not dissatisfied with how the days pass. 

Although it is spring, that does not mean the weather is always co-operative. Indeed, about ten days into our stay, a sudden storm blows in from the ocean. I am nodding over my reading when the unexpected slam of rain against the windows wakes me with a start. A quick check through the swiftly dimming cottage confirms that Holmes has not yet returned from his daily constitutional; I can only hope he is near the house. Unfortunately, fifteen, twenty, thirty minutes pass in an agony of slowness, as the winds howl like vengeful ghosts, and rain lashes the building. I would go out in search of him but, as usual, I have no idea in which direction he has set off that day. All I can do is hope he has found shelter somewhere, or that he will momentarily arrive back home.

Finally, after nearly 45 minutes of anxious waiting, I see his black coat finally appear through the gloom. Such is the difficulty seeing through the driving rain that he is nearly at the house before I spot him. I rush to the front door and throw it open just as he stumbles through. Icy rain lashes my face in the few moments it takes before I slam the door shut again.

“Thank God,” I breathe, as I peel off Sherlock’s sodden coat and remove his hat. “You had me in a terror!”

“I confess, I was uncharacteristically worried, myself, Watson,” he replies, his words slightly slurred. “The barometer did indicate a change in weather but I did not properly interpret the severity. All I could do was return home as soon as I noticed the exceptionally dark clouds, but I was unable to beat the storm here.” He pauses as I stand before him, struggling to unknot his wet cravat. “I have walked those two and a half miles before without a moment’s thought,” he continues, once it is free, “but this time was different.” Chattering teeth, added to the slurring, make it difficult to understand him. 

“You must get out of these wet clothes,” I say. He nods obediently, but then fumbles with the buttons on his waistcoat when he attempts to comply.

“My fingers are rather numb,” he admits at last. 

I look up into his dark eyes, so familiar, but so uncharacteristically dull from fatigue and chill. “Is it all right if I help you, then?” I murmur. 

Holmes nods again. “I place myself entirely in your care,” he replies, a shiver rattling his tall frame.

I tug him forward to stand closer to the fire, heedless of the way his trousers and hair are still dripping onto the rug, and dash to my bedroom – the closest – to pull a blanket off my bed. Swiftly, I undo the buttons on his waistcoat and pull it off. His shirt is nearly as sodden as his outer layers, so driving was the rain; the wet material clings to his slim body, the outline of every muscle and ripple of skin visible beneath the nearly transparent fabric. I undo those buttons, remove the cuffs and tug the shirt off, too, immediately wrapping the dry blanket around his now-bare shoulders. 

My hand pauses over the top button on his trousers. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather…?” I ask, my voice trailing off awkwardly.

By necessity I’m standing very close to him, close enough that I can hear the slight hitch in his breath before he repeats “ _Entirely_ in your care” in a low voice.

In the many times I have, rather ashamedly, imagined undressing Holmes with my own hands, I have never imagined it under these circumstances, tending him rather than him willingly coming to me for pleasure. I therefore take more care undoing his trouser buttons and easing the drenched wool down his long legs, trying not to touch his skin too much, and trying not to admire how well-muscled his limbs are from all the walking. I end up kneeling on the hearthrug, allowing Holmes to brace one hand against my shoulder while he stands on one foot, and then the other, so I may completely remove his trousers. Unfortunately, this leaves my face extremely close to personal parts of his anatomy; like his wet shirt, the wet drawers hide very little from view, although I’m trying hard to avert my eyes. I exhale a shuddery breath, trying to get a grip on my feelings.

“I … I think that will do for now,” I murmur, my face turned to the fire; I am no longer sure if it’s the blush or the flames which are heating my cheeks. “Go to bed – I’ll warm some bricks for your feet and bring you some hot tea.”

But Holmes uses his one free hand – the other is holding the blanket closed around his shoulders – to tug up on my elbow and draw me back to a standing position. “You know what will warm me much more efficiently than bricks or tea, don’t you, Dr. Watson?” he says in that same low voice, so unlike his usual brisk tones and which is also doing strange things to my stomach.

I stare into the expanse of blanket-covered chest in front of me. “Holmes, don’t,” I whisper. “I … I can’t.”

“Of course you can.” Holmes puts one cold finger under my chin and tips my face up to his. “The question is, will you do your old friend so great a service?”

In truth, there is not the slightest possibility I will refuse his request, and he knows this. I am a doctor after all, and the welfare of my patients trump all other concerns. I swallow, steeling my resolve, then nod.

“Then if you would assist me, Watson, I would be grateful.” He holds out one bare arm. “I’m afraid my legs are stiffening right up from the chill.”

Indeed, he is still shivering, and does not seem as steady on his feet as I might like. I take his arm in mine, and escort him to his bedroom. As impassively as possible, I reach into the gap in his blanket-shawl to undo the buttons on his drawers and slide them off. I tuck him into his chilled bed, then quickly strip off my own clothing. His eyes are closed, although whether in exhaustion or in an attempt to give me some privacy, I have no idea. Crawling under the blankets, I press myself against his icy side, and wrap an arm across his chest, sharing as much of my body heat as possible. We stay like that for long minutes, hearing the storm lash the cottage, until Holmes finally stops shivering and his skin temperature is much more to my liking. His even breathing tells me he’s fallen asleep. Lulled by the tranquility of the moment and the warmth of the bed, I, too, drop off to sleep.

Consciousness is slow to penetrate my sleep-addled brain and at first I am confused to find myself in bed with someone. My eyes flash open even as my memory provides the answer: Holmes, chilled to the bone from the cold rain, needing the shared warmth to recover. Sure enough, my head is resting on Holmes’ bare shoulder, my arm is still tightly wrapped around his chest, and my legs now tangle with his. Nothing would be too unreasonable about that, except that my cock clearly has not received the message that this was an act of mercy, not of seduction. I can feel my hardness pressed against his hip, and it takes everything I have not to thrust against him, desperate for more friction and pressure, but I hold still out of an equally strong desire that Holmes not notice my predicament. Alas, my prayers that I might be able to shift position without him knowing go unanswered as he opens his own eyes and turns his head to look down at me.

I immediately avert my gaze. “I’m so sorry, Holmes. What you must think of me–”

“Don’t apologize, Watson. Not for this,” he murmurs. He reaches across with his hand and strokes my hip, fingers trailing from the top of my buttock forward toward my groin, back and forth, back and forth, and I cannot help the sharp breath I suck in at the surge of feeling that zings through me. 

My cock likewise responds to his touch, twitching and throbbing against Holmes’ own hip. There is no way he can fail to notice my body’s eager response. “H-holmes,” I stutter as another jolt of pleasure blazes down my spine. “You must stop.”

“No,” he says, finally shifting onto his own side to face me. His cock brushes against mine and I choke back a groan. “I don’t think I shall.” And with that, he crushes his lips to mine, and my entire world narrows to the feel of my dearest friend, my secret object of desire, kissing me within an inch of his life.

Has he desired me in return all this time, and I simply failed to notice? I don’t know and, in that moment, I do not particularly care. All I care is that we are here, together, and he is kissing me with a heat and ferocity I did not know he possessed. His lips part and I feel his tongue brush questioningly against the seam of my own lips. I allow him access, enjoying the unfamiliar intimacy of having his tongue in my mouth, then return the gesture, exploring the heat and ridges and taste of Holmes’ mouth with my tongue. 

When we part for air, I find he has been cupping my jaw with his hand, helping direct my face for the best kissing angle. His fingers slide down to my chin, where he curls his fingers under the knobby bone and reaches up with his thumb to stroke my spit-slick lips. I dart my tongue out to see if his skin tastes the same as his mouth (it doesn’t), and then his thumb is slipping between my lips. I stroke the ridges of his thumb pad with my tongue, then suck on the digit, and am delighted by the shuddering breath he takes in response. I treat two of his other fingers in the same manner before he finally reclaims his hand.

“Lie back,” he says, his voice low yet commanding, “and let me take care of you.”

I do as he asks; he rises to sit astride me, then shifts slightly, using his knees to nudge my legs apart so he may kneel between them instead. Bending low over my body, he nuzzles the side of my neck, lips barely brushing the skin, teeth lightly scraping against my pulse point. The light touches are maddening, and I want more, so much more, but he merely slides further down my body, lips and teeth and tongue making only the slightest contact along my clavicles, my sternum. He pauses a moment, and I feel his warm breath above one nipple. I arch my chest a little in silent invitation, but he merely raises his head an equal amount. My eyes are closed, but I can sense how he is but a millimeter from my skin, a desperately itchy, tantalizing distance. At last, his tongue darts out to flick at the nipple, and I gasp in response, then gasp again as he gently blows cool air at the moistened tip. He repeats his actions on the other side, then continues lower, his heated breath creating a maddening trail down my abdomen, down, down, until he reaches my aching cock.

At the first puff of air just above the straining tip, however, I cannot help the “Please,” that escapes me. I am consumed by the need for him to touch me. His teasing breath continues down one side, then up the other, and I am about to beg again when he finally closes his lips over me.

Dear God! My back arches and I thrust blindly into the warm wetness of his mouth. Long fingers wrap around my hips, pressing me back into the sheets while his tongue curls around my shaft. He pulls back, tongue curled around my shaft and sucking hard, and I groan in response. I have – as any red-blooded man – sometimes taken my desires into my own hands, so to speak, but nothing compares to the feeling of Sherlock’s mouth on me, sucking me off with focused determination. He presses my thighs further apart as he settles between my legs, wet tight heat engulfing my cock over and over. Pleasure quickly ramps up, becoming almost unbearable as my need for release grows. “Not … going to … last,” I manage to say, between ragged gasps.

He hums in acknowledgment but does not cease or even pause in his ministrations. Indeed, the vibrations of his hum only serve to increase the pleasurable sensations even further, and moments later the climax is upon me. My muscles contract and I cry out in wordless bliss as I spend myself into his mouth.

For long moments I am aware only of the aftershocks of pleasure, and then I am drawing in long, gasping breaths, sated and exhausted, although it was Sherlock who expended most of the effort. He has collapsed back to the pillows and his face is inches from mine as I finally open my eyes again. 

“I hope my performance was satisfactory?” he asks, and I nod languidly. My hand reaches out, gently strokes his face, then down the side of his body, but when I reach for his cock, he gently pushes my hand away. “You have already seen to my needs today,” he says.

“Only to warm you,” I protest. “Not to–” I feel a blush heating my cheeks. “Not to … offer you pleasure. Please,” I add, seeing him shake his head. “It is only fair.”

“My needs are not the same as yours, John,” he says, and it’s odd how his use of my Christian name feels almost more intimate than the act we just shared. “Your offer is most generous, but unnecessary.”

The haze of fatigue is beginning to reclaim me, else I would protest more. As it is, I simply nod my acquiescence, raise his hand to my lips for a gentle kiss, and allow my eyes to slip closed. 

I wake perhaps an hour later, alone in Sherlock’s bed. His side is cold, indicating that he has been gone for some time. Still, I allow myself a moment to remember all that has recently transpired between us, feeling again a sense of wonder that my long-wished-for desires seem to have finally come true. Quickly, I find my discarded clothing and dress, noticing as I do so that there is no longer the sound of wind and rain lashing the cabin, and the sky outside Sherlock’s wind looks overcast but no longer forbiddingly dark.

Sherlock is ensconced in his favourite armchair by the fire, engrossed in a book, when I enter into the sitting room. “Ah, Watson,” he says, his eyes brightening. “I trust you are well-rested?”

I nod, feeling suddenly awkward. How exactly does one approach a conversation after such intimacies? “Should we talk about … I mean, what happens now, with us?” I finally manage.

Sherlock sets his book down on a small side table, looking suddenly serious. “John,” he begins, and I again note the use of my name. “I’m afraid I must make myself plain.”

I sit down in the chair opposite him, my stomach likewise sinking as I sink into the cushions. “What do you wish to say?”

“First, I must say again how grateful I am to have you as a friend, a dear friend. There are not many who would have done what you did.”

“Think nothing of it - I was glad to–” I protest, but he holds up a hand to silence me.

“However, I must confess that what I did for you in return was simply my attempt to repay you for your kindness.” His gaze softens, and a look almost unbearably like pity creeps in around the edges. “Although I do not condemn you or any man for being an invert, neither do I share the inclination.” 

And I remember his earlier statement: “My needs are not the same as yours.” 

“But you—” I trail off, unsure exactly what it is I want to say. _You were so good at it_? _You made me feel loved_? I try again. “Then why did you do it?”

“I could see you had a need that required fulfillment,” he says simply. “Since you had kindly gone beyond the bounds of our usual friendship in order to tend to my needs, there was no question but that I do the same for you.”

“I see,” I reply, thoughts whirling. After a long moment, I add, “I hope that this does not change our friendship in any way.”

“Of course not,” he says, matter-of-factly. “You are still my dearest friend, as well as my trusted companion when cases arise. As long as you can be content with that, then we proceed as we have always done.”

It is not, of course, what I had hoped to hear. But what is the alternative? If I cannot bear to continue on with Holmes platonically, then I lose him entirely. There can be, of course, only one response. “I am and shall always be glad of your friendship,” I say. It is the truth after all, just not the whole truth. But Sherlock already knows this, so there is no need to say any more.

The next morning the village girl, Cecily, arrives to take care of the cleaning and to collect our laundry. After accepting our garments, including Holmes’ sodden items from the previous day, she hands over a small envelope. “From th’ vicar, sirs,” she says, with a quick bob of her head.

Holmes takes the letter, breaks the wax seal and opens it. “Ah, yes, it’s from Mr. Roundhay,” he says. At my look of puzzlement, he explains, “The village vicar is a surprising expert on the local archaeology, and I was fortunate enough to encounter him on one of my wanderings.” Handing me the letter, he adds, “He’s invited us to tea tomorrow.”

As much as I have been enjoying the solitude of time with Holmes, right now a little diversion would be welcome. I skim the note, then hand it back. “I look forward to meeting him,” I say. “As long as you are fit again to make the walk to the village.”

“I’ve never been better,” Holmes assures me. He tells Cecily to convey to the vicar that we accept his invitation, then he turns back to me. “How about if you come along on today’s walk, Watson? That way I may show you some of the more interesting ancient mounds I have discovered, and what the vicar has told me about them.”

I gaze at sky out the window, but there are no clouds nor any on the horizon. “I would be glad to accompany you,” I tell him. 

And as we leave the cottage, if my hand itches to twine with his, that is nobody’s business but my own.

**Author's Note:**

> You will be _my_ dearest friend if you leave a comment! Concrit is fine, too - just be polite. :-)


End file.
